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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
A while back, I took a couple of sketch writing classes over at ImprovBoston. Those were great, because every week I’d have an assignment to write a short scene — three-to-five pages long, generally — usually with some sort of spin or angle on which to focus. It was a nice contrast to the essay-y sort of things I normally do here (plus I got a ‘bonus’ post out of the effort every week), and I’ve been missing the prompts a bit.
(What’s that, you say? I could just write these little vignettes, without a prompt or a deadline, any old time I feel like it?
Right. You’ve clearly got me mixed up with some other kind of ‘writer’. The kind that doesn’t exist, so far as I’ve ever met.)
At any rate, I thought of getting back into an IB writing class. But that’s a bit of a problem. Last time I tried to take the next level, I was the only schmuck who signed up. This session, they didn’t even offer it. And the house sketch group I picked up with over the winter has apparently disbanded.
(Sort of makes you wonder. Either these ‘improv’ people really aren’t all that interested in scripted material, or I’m wearing completely the wrong brand of cologne. Maybe a little of both.)
Luckily for me, my friend Jenn is teaching an online course out of the prestigious Rhode Island School of Design this month. Not only does it come with prompts and assignments and learny things, but soon I’ll be able to say I have the same alma mater as Stuart Bloom.
“So you can go woo yourself, for all I care.”
Because that’s a completely rational thing for someone to want. Or care about. Or randomly remember from an aggressively-syndicated sitcom.
Anyway, this is not strictly a ‘sketch writing’ class. But the first assignment was a sketch. It was due yesterday. I think you can probably guess what’s coming next.
So please to be enjoying ‘A Date with Kate‘ below. We were asked to interpret Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew into a modern scene, which takes place at a speed dating event.
Jeez, Jenn — why don’t you throw in a snake charmer and a pair of toenail clippers next time? Trying to make us work much?
(I retract my previous statement, on the grounds that it’s still the first week of class and I don’t want to give her ideas any kookier than the ones she already has planned.
Because she’ll do it. Just watch her.)
Without further ado, my ‘shrew’. Thank yew.
A Date with Kate
[Couples sit at tables in a large bar dining room; a banner reading ‘SPEED DATING – TONIGHT!’ is overhead. Cheesy ’80s pop music plays softly.
At the far end of the bar sits KATLYN [30s, severe], reading a book. She’s dressed in sweats and clearly not interested in the hubbub around her.
A bell DINGs; as the men switch tables, PETE breaks away and approaches Katlyn.]
PETE: Hey there! It’s Kate, right?
[Katlyn glares at him over her book, then goes back to reading.]
PETE: I’m Pete. I was just talking to your sister, but I’d much rather sit with you.
[Pete motions to a nearby table where BIANCA [20s, pretty, bubbly] is sitting, surrounded by three suitors. All wave.]
KATLYN: Look, Pat-
PETE: It’s Pete.
KATLYN: Whatever. I’m busy. Go bother someone else.
PETE: Nope — you know the rules. For the next eight minutes, you’re all mine.
[Katlyn huffs and turns to Pete.]
KATLYN: I’m not here to talk to you, or any of these other losers. I’m reading. You’re interrupting. Get. Lost.
PETE: That’s the spirit, Kate! She said you were feisty.
[From the table, Bianca and men give thumbs up. Katlyn growls and downs the contents of her glass.]
KATLYN: It’s Katlyn. And you’re an idiot. Go away, idiot.
[Kate turns back to her book. MANNY [50s, burly], the bartender, walks by.]
PETE: Now, now — that’s just the alcohol talking.
KATLYN: This is ginger ale. Idiot. Hit me, Daddy.
[Manny refills her glass from the bar nozzle.]
PETE: This is your father? Sir, my compliments on a charming bar — and a ravishing daughter. Could I have your permission to woo her?
MANNY: Hey, woo away. Best of luck, pal.
[Manny wanders off to fiddle with the sound system. Katlyn bristles.]
KATLYN: Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not wooing me. There is no woo. I’m here to babysit my sappy sister, and nothing else. So you can go woo yourself, for all I care.
[Pete stares at her, starry-eyed.]
KATLYN: And what the hell are you grinning about?
PETE: When your nostrils flare, it’s like two angry little doves flapping their wings. Do you think our kids will have those?
KATLYN: Bah! And I thought the music was unbearable.
PETE: Hey, you’re right — these songs are all pretty WASPy. Barkeep! How about some Sting?
[“Fortress Around Your Heart” plays.]
KATLYN: Oh, my ass!
PETE: Your tail? What of it?
KATLYN: Is Sting not a WASP?
PETE: Bite your tongue!
KATLYN: Bite me.
PETE: Your tongue, or your tail?
KATLYN: Oh, buzz off. I ought to call the cops.
PETE: The Police?!
[“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” plays. Manny gives Pete a thumbs up.
Katlyn growls in exasperation and turns away, nose buried in her book.]
PETE: Super! Well, I suppose you’ll want to know more about your new man. I haven’t been in town long; I’m sort of the new kid-
[Manny calls over, CD in hand.]
MANNY: New Kids?
PETE AND KATLYN: (in unison) NO!!
PETE: Aw, see — we hate the same things! It’s fate, Kate. You can’t fight fate.
KATLYN: I don’t have to fight fate. I only have to fight you. And judging by your scrawny little pencil body, I’d beat your ass easy.
PETE: Well, I usually wait until the third date for that sort of thing, but-
[Manny meanders back toward them.]
KATLYN: Daddy! Make this cretin go away.
MANNY: Ah, he seems nice. A little romance would do you good, Katlyn. Give him a chance.
[The speed dating bell DINGs again.]
KATLYN: Oh! Sorry, Pete. It seems your time is up.
[Katlyn stands, sneers at Pete, throws her drink in his face and storms away. Bianca’s table offers Pete encouraging nods and polite applause.]
PETE: What glorious pluck. And she remembered my name! When can I see her again?
MANNY: Well… Tuesday is bucket beer night. But be careful — she throws bottles. And buckets.
PETE: It’s a date. I’ll be here with bells — and a helmet — on. Someday, sir — I’m gonna marry that girl!
Permalink | No CommentsMy new company — well, new to me, anyway — is located in a large building with several other businesses. I’ve mentioned the gym, and there are a bunch of startups scattered around.
There’s also a culinary school, with a connected restaurant on the ground floor. I’ve never been to the restaurant, but I see the chefs-in-training come and go all the time, in their cheffing coats and funny hats and prison-issue-style pants. And after watching them for a little over two months now, I’ve come to a singular conclusion:
Chefs are pretty disgusting people.
Now, maybe it’s just these chefs. And to be fair, they’re not on the job when I see them. They’re on the way to work, or getting off after a long day of sauteeing or julienneing or whatever the hell they teach you in food class. Still, for being ten minutes removed from honest-to-god knife-in-hand whisk-a-licious kitchen time?
“You won’t find more spitting, smoking, crotch-grabbing and ass-scratching anywhere this side of an MLB clubhouse. Or maybe a house of Congress.”
Chefs are pretty disgusting people.
Seriously. You won’t find more spitting, smoking, crotch-grabbing and ass-scratching anywhere this side of an MLB clubhouse. Or maybe a house of Congress. The point is, these are not people that I would especially want handling my food. Or silverware. Or pushing the same elevator buttons, quite frankly. If they’re not going to wear gloves in the building hallways, I’m thinking of doing it myself.
I’ve considered whether maybe I’m being too hard on these kids. Perhaps I’m holding them to a higher hygienic standard, just because they glom their filthy paws on things that I might want to put in my mouth.
Then again? No. I’ll allow that we all do the things I’ve seen these cheflets do. Humans are disgusting creatures. Why, I myself — and don’t be alarmed, now — may have scratched or spat or picked or rubbed something that was, in the strictest sense, ‘inappropriate’. I’ll own that.
But there’s a big difference. I do those things alone, largely in the privacy of my own home. Or at various dinner parties or family gatherings that I’m trying to get out of. But never — I can’t stress this enough, never — near the office, nor out in the open where innocent passersby might see and be scandalized. Or splattered, as the case may be.
Meanwhile, these kitchen cowboys throw it right out there in the open. I’d feel a lot better if they were each fitted with a sneeze guard all the way around. Not to keep the germs out, mind you. But to keep the icky in.
So no, I haven’t been to the restaurant in our building. But my wife keeps asking when we’re going to check it out. She says she’s heard good things, that the food’s supposed to be good and the menu is really innovative. I consider countering with “Yes, but last week I saw the sous chef leaving work with his hand down his pants.” I don’t know what he’s ‘innovating’ down there, exactly — but I’m pretty certain I don’t want it on a plate served with squid ink risotto and the veggie of the day.
But do I say this to my wife? These are her friends recommending this restaurant to her. If I tell her how skeeved out I am about the place, what’ll that say about them? And what will they say to me? A lot of them are more easily skeeved than I am — would they prefer the ignorant bliss of not knowing what recently-hocking, -farting or -spewing yahoo had his creme all over their brulee? What’s done is done, and likely pooped into the history books by now. Will they really sleep easier, if the truth gets back to them via my missus?
On the other hand, what if these people really liked the place? They have a right to know what’s what — especially if they’re planning another trip. Unless I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m just having a Poppie’s moment. Or the chefs who work the restaurant are the good ones, who keep their hands and mouths and noses clean around the foodstuff workspace.
(Though if that’s true, they’re hiding them well. Maybe the reward for doing well in culinary school is being shackled to a pasta maker and never let out of the kitchen. That would explain a lot of Gordon Ramsey’s schtick, anyway.)
For now, I’ve been able to put the question off. But the day is coming soon when my lovely wife will ask me to make a reservation at the school restaurant, and I’ll have to decide what to do. Reveal the truth? Feign appendicitis? Eat some exciting fresh and possibly booger-tainted dish? Only time will tell.
But I’m leaning toward the appendix thing. From what I’ve seen? It might even be worth the surgery. No lie.
Permalink | No CommentsI try to follow social convention. I really do. But my ability to wriggle into ridiculous situations sometimes means going completely off book. “Goofball” doesn’t come with a protocol manual, sadly.
Take my current predicament. I’ve got eyes, and they’re not especially good. So I wear contact lenses — and at the moment, those aren’t especially good, either. They’re old, and a little itchy, and they’ve got some sort of proteinaceous gunk building up around the edges.
(At least, I hope it’s proteinaceous gunk. Otherwise, my eyewear is growing stalagmites. Which seems less than ideal.)
So it’s time for new contacts, and that means calling the optometrist — and that’s where the social protocol falls apart a little bit. You see, I missed the last appointment with my optometrist. It just slipped my mind, wafted right off my schedule, and I spaced. Eye appointment in absentia.
“Otherwise, my eyewear is growing stalagmites. Which seems less than ideal.”
This is not, in itself, a problem. There are plenty of social rules about how to handle missed appointments — and not surprisingly, I’ve used them all. Mostly, they differ in how long it’s been since the spaced-on event. To wit:
Less than an hour late: Call or stop by, apologize profusely, sound sheepish, see if it’s still possible to “slip in”.
One day late: Call, apologize profusely, sound sheepish, pretend you thought you had the day wrong, ask to reschedule.
Up to a week late: Call, apologize profusely, sound sheepish, make a hasty excuse, ask politely to reschedule.
Up to a month late: Call, apologize profusely, sound sheepish, make a really good excuse because you’ve had so much time to think of one, beg to reschedule.
These are all things I’ve done — not necessarily at this optometrist, mind you. I like to shop my bone-headed negligence around the neighborhood. But I’ve done them.
Still, the rules only take me so far out the timeline. Sure, I could stretch the ‘up to a month’ out to six weeks or two months, if the excuse included a kidnapping or some sort of recently-reversed coma. With a bribe of chocolates or flowers, I might even get a new appointment sometime before the radical expansion of the sun in a few billion years renders my myopia moot.
That’s about as far as “the book” on such things gets me. If I right my missed appointment wrong within a quarter or so, there’s some hope of redemption. And new lenses that come without a forced prostate exam. So when was this appointment that I missed, exactly?
About two and a half years ago. Give or take an eyelash.
There’s no protocol for apologizing for an appointment you missed two and a half years in the past. Warring countries have made reparations in shorter timeframes. If I call them up now, I might reach the receptionist’s grandkid manning the desk. And to sound that sheepish, I’d have to grow six inches of wool on my ass. I’m in deep, here.
In my defense — of missing the original appointment, anyway — it was scheduled for the week we moved into our condo. With all the packing and unpacking and dropping boxes and shoving crap into storage willy-nilly, a little thing like a contact checkup slipped my mind. It’s perfectly understandable, probably.
And then… well, the lenses didn’t bother me for another, what, thirty months or so. So, yay for them. High-quality little plastic doohickeys, apparently. Either that, or I have an inhumanly high tolerance for scratched corneas. Could be either.
But now they itch. Also I don’t see so well, and that’s kind of an important thing for modern biped mammals who use computers and books and drivers licenses a lot, But how do I call up this optometrist and say,
“Oh, hey there — yeah, it’s me. Sorry, I went out for that gallon of milk and disappeared for two and a half years. You know what they say — boys will be boys. Amirite?”
That’s hardly going to fly. As soon as they punch me into the system, they’ll see the history — assuming computers even existed when I had my last appointment — and then they’ll punch me in the face for it having the nerve to show itself there again.
I thought about giving a fake name, which would probably work. I mean, it’s not like anyone there would remember me from before. They’re optometrists, not freaking elephants, after all. But eventually, I’d want to pay with my insurance card. And when it doesn’t say “Reginald Pennybottom” to match the name I gave, the ruse would come crashing down around my ears.
And they’d probably strap me in the glaucoma machine and shoot air puffs at my eyes, just for fun. God, I hate that breezy little torture device.
As it turns out, there’s another wee little complication to using “sorry, I moved” as a long-term excuse in this case. Our house, where we moved from, was maybe a twenty-minute drive away from the doc’s shop. Not exactly inconvenient, but hardly a jaunt down the block, either.
The new condo, where we moved to? This optometrist’s office is, almost entirely literally, a jaunt down the block. Walk a few steps, turn the corner and BAM — there it is. At a decent jog, I could probably go door-to-door in under two minutes. Less, in sensible shoes.
So will they understand how I managed to sit here, in the veritable shadow of their establishment, for two and a half years without managing to stick my head in to reschedule? I’m thinking ‘no’. They’ll shove salt in my eyes and poof me with that air thingy all day. Clearly, the time has passed to make another appointment with those people.
And now I’m left with finding a new optometrist — one who won’t schedule appointments near any major life events I might have popping up, and whose office is at least a twenty-minute drive away. Not just because that’s how it seems to work best — but also so they won’t know exactly where I live when I see them on the street after my next missed appointment.
At this point, that just seems safest. Maybe I should write it in “the book”, no?
Permalink | 1 CommentThe first two rules of writing, as they were explained to me once by the back of a Fruit Loops box, are these:
#1. Write what you know.
Now, what I know is stubborn persnickety dogs, smart-assed responses, embarrassing office humiliations, awkward conversations and apologizing profusely to my wife for most or all of the above.
It’s no picnic to live through. But it does fill up the page nicely. Then there’s:
#2. Know your audience.
Give ’em what they’re looking for, whoever the hell they are. Easy enough.
Only, there are times when it’s not so easy to follow both rules at once. Like walking and chewing gum, sometimes you end up skinny-kneed and needing an emergency Heimlich. Literarily speaking.
Take, for instance, the recent Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. Erma was a much beloved and prolific print humorist, poking gentle fun and pointing out the foibles of everyday life to generations of readers of a now-obsolete medium. She was family-friendly, plain-spoken and wry, and that’s the sort of voice the contest judges were searching for in this contest.
My entry contains the phrase “Mexican standoff” in the first fifteen words.
Clearly, I lean toward Rule #1.
So, I didn’t win. But as usual, my crushing defeats are your mild entertainments. So please to be enjoying the following untitled, judge-rejected, decidedly non-Bombeckian tale. I think you might like it.
But what do I know? That’s a Rule #2 thing.
My dog and I are in a standoff. I’d call it a ‘Mexican standoff’, but there are just the two of us. Also, we’re not wielding guns. And she’s not a Chihuahua.
She is, however, stubborn. Recently, the pooch was feeling sick — so I did what any kind, responsible, caring pet owner would do. I bought special ‘veterinarian-approved’ canned dog food to nurse her back to health. Happily, it worked; the mutt’s fit as a Fido again.
And now she won’t eat anything else.
“In a battle of wills, human trumps hound every time. This is why there are no dachshund debate teams.”
For twelve years, she snurfled down kibble like it was beluga caviar. Every day — the same bowl, the same brand, and the same desperate snout-first dive to the bottom. But now, with one taste of soft gooey grub under her collar, she’s suddenly a canine connoisseur. And that eighty-pound bulk bag of chow I just bought?
“Feed it to the cat,” she says. “My palate’s too refined for that mass-produced mush.”
And so, we dance. Every morning, I kibble her bowl to the brim as usual. But instead of pouncing on it like a hyena tackling a horsemeat-and-cereal-filler wildebeest, she just stares, forlorn. As though she’s asking, “What unforgivable sin did I commit to deserve this wretched ‘food’? You monster!”
But I stand firm. This is perfectly good kibble, and seventy-nine pounds of it, to boot. It’s high-protein, extra-vitaminized, and fully hormone-free. My next cheeseburger should come with so many healthful accolades. It won’t — but it should.
So there’s no way I’m giving in and feeding this canine from a can. Thus, a standoff.
Or so I thought. Yesterday, I passed the dog’s bowl and found it licked clean. I declared victory, planting my flag in the kitchen linoleum. Mind over mutts, I crowed. In a battle of wills, human trumps hound every time. This is why there are no dachshund debate teams.
I ran to tell my wife the good news. She shrugged and trampled my win like an Iditarod team in stiletto heels:
“The dog looked hungry earlier, so I poured out the kibble and gave her some canned. That did the trick.”
It seems that ‘trick’ is on me — it was a Mexican standoff all along! And I’d just been shot in the back. By my wife, no less. Ay, Chihuahua!
So I did what any humiliated, outflanked, defeated pet owner would do. I bought a whole shelf full of special veterinarian-approved canned food for the dog. I still pour the kibble into a bowl every morning. But now I slice a banana over it and eat it with milk myself. It’s healthier than bran flakes, and approximately as tasty. Only seventy-eight and a half pounds to go.
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve been pretty scarce around here for the last week or so. I hope no one believed I was the victim of some sort of bathroom-related shenanigans.
Not that it’s all that far from the truth. I just can’t imagine the eulogy, is all.
As penance for my absence, I’ll point you to a few updates and tidbits that may, post facto, entertain you. Unless your facto is still running, and then you may enjoy them in medias facto. Or thereabouts.
First, there’s a brand new Zolton Does Amazon piece over at ZuG — Art Lessons.
(And you might want to hurry, if you’re planning on checking it out. I made a joke about getting to ‘second base’ in a review of a book about fingerpainting. If Amazon doesn’t shut me off soon, the Feds might do it for them.)
“I made a joke about getting to ‘second base’ in a review of a book about fingerpainting. If Amazon doesn’t shut me off soon, the Feds might do it for them.”
Next, I’m pleased and proud to announce that I have a piece in the upcoming Mug of Woe book sequel, Woe of the Road. Many thanks to editors Jenn and Kyle for all their hard work on the series.
(Even if they refused to call this second book “Muggy 2: Electric Woegaloo“. Opportunity squandered, ladies. Opportunity squandered.)
Speaking of Jenn — and her other-partner in different sorts of crime, Andrea — their film Viral Video has been accepted into the SouthEast New England Film, Music and Arts Festival. I’m very pleased for them.
(And not just because I’m featured in the film. Mostly that. But not ‘just’.)
If you’re in the Providence, Rhode Island area on the weekend of April 13th, check out the SENEFest. It’s rumored to be quite the hoot.
In other news, I reached the final round of the NYC Midnight Short Screenplay Challenge, which was a lot of fun. I didn’t place, but I did learn how to write a five-page screenplay in a weekend with no preparation whatsoever. I have to believe that’ll come in handy somehow. Like if the condo is ever taken over by a bunch of theater-loving terrorists with severe ADD.
There are some other things in the works — but nothing I can’t update on after another AWOL week of neglecting this place.
(I kid, I kid. I’m sure March will be totally the month where all the free time I haven’t had will come oozing into my life like some sort of leisure time osmosis enema.
Or possibly something far less disturbing.)
Anyway, I’m alive. And not sequestered in the scary-signed office bathroom from the last post.
(Though I did notice another startling thing today. Not only is the unnerving sign still hanging on the little boys’ room door, now there’s a charity signup list tacked up right below it.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for community service — even the non-court-mandated kind. But is the time to ask for my help in working at a food bank or connecting tots with toys really when I’m rushing into the ‘research room’ to drop an angry deuce? If anything, put that sign on the inside of the door, so I see it when I’m emptied and relaxed, on the way out. That’s when I’m feeling ‘charitable’, man. Figure it out.)
I’ll keep you posted on any further harrowing details. And there will be harrowing details. That’s my life. Harrow happens.
Meanwhile, there’s precious little of this ‘extra’ Leap Day left. And I can’t think of any better way to spend it than doing what I do best — sacking out in the bed and napping through the harrowing. I’ll see you kids in March.
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